


Is This Darkness or the Dawn?

by Amarra



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asian Character(s), Bechdel Test Pass, F/M, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, PoC, Politics, Romance, Slow Burn, person of color, woc, women of color
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21710590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarra/pseuds/Amarra
Summary: Two people, bound by duty, brought together by responsibility, desperately searching for a way out of the past. The Inquisitor and an ex-Templar try to weave a future together in a world that's as fragile as a spider's web.Slow burn.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Mage Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

_“The night is long, and the path is dark”_

Awareness comes slowly and pain rides on its heels. Her eyes feel gummed and gritty as she forces them open. There’s a jolt of pain through her side when she tries to sit up. C _racked ribs, if I’m lucky and they’re not broken,_ she notes. There is no time to dwell on the pain when she sees the guards. There are four of them, all with drawn swords and mouths in tight lines. Her hands are shackled in front of her and the chain clanks as she shifts into a kneeling position. Blood rushes to her head and there’s a ringing in her ears. She tries to breath slowly through her nose, but doesn’t try to stand. She doesn’t know what’s happening but she’s a mage, been through the Harrowing, and knows that things don’t end well for mages who wake to armed guards. These men don’t _look_ like Templars—or muffle her magic the way that the Templars at Ostwick Circle did—but they don't need to be Templars to kill her, bound and injured as she is.

One of the guards moves to the door, his eyes never leaving hers. He whispers something through the bars, but she can’t make out what he’s saying. As she becomes more alert, her attention is drawn from the guards to the sickly green glow coming from her fist. Uncurling her left hand reveals a gash that cuts across her palm. It’s impossible, but somehow it feels as if she’s _bleeding magic_ through the cut.

Once, when she was young and first learning to cast fire, she'd held onto a spell for too long. It backfired disastrously, destroying her staff and singeing her hands. In that moment, her veins had felt like they were being lanced with lightning. This feels similar, except now she's holding a bonfire instead of a candle flame.

 _What the fuck is going on?_ she wondered. She tried to remember the events that could have brought her to this place, shackled and kneeling and the captive of Maker only knows who, but there’s nothing. Where her memories should be is a hole, a gap that feels like it was cut through her mind with a knife. There is nothing in her recent memories that could help explain this… _thing_ in her hand. Before that… T _he Conclave. I was riding to the Conclave,_ she thinks. She remembers arriving at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, settling her loaned horse in the stables... and then nothing.

The mark on her palm flares with magic as she starts to panic—which should be impossible since she’s not casting, she’s not stupid enough to try—and the guards shift into a more aggressive stance. Even in the dim torchlight she can see the fear in their eyes. The moment stretches. _Mages have died for less than this_ , she thinks, between one breath and the next.

Isn’t that how she'd started on the road to the Conclave in the first place? Mages rebelling, mages dying. Ostwick Circle broken. And her in the middle of it, trying to find a way through the rebellion like a ship through a storm. Perhaps it was inevitable that her journey would end like this. _Well if I’m going to die, I’m not going to die kneeling,_ she thinks grimly.

Before she can stand, the door opens. Despite her best efforts she can’t keep the surprise off her face.

 _Ah,_ _fuck. And I thought it couldn’t get any worse,_ she thinks when she sees who enters. Cassandra Pentaghast—the Right Hand of the Divine, Seeker, Hero of Orlais, _Dragon. Fucking. Slayer._ And next to her, Leliana, the Left Hand of the Divine, the Nightingale. There’s an incredulous laugh bubbling in her chest that she keeps behind clamped teeth. 

She knows who they are, of course. Ostwick Circle is mostly a backwater as far as the Chantry is concerned, but she’s not a complete fool. She would have been perfectly content living her entire life without encountering these two, but she has their full attention now. Leliana’s gray eyes are cold and assessing under the cowl pulled over her red hair. If she’s angry, there’s no indication besides a momentary tightening in her brow.

A scar cuts across the Seeker's face from cheek to chin. Unlike Leliana, Cassandra is clearly furious and her eyes are dark with suppressed rage. The guards leave the room and she's left alone with the Hands of the Divine. Her own hand feels like it’s been scalded, alternating pain that flashes hot and cold.

In the silence, she gets up. No one moves to stop her.

Cassandra breaks the silence first, “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” Her words are harsh, clipped. “Except for you.”

She’s struck speechless, searching their faces for deception, but she finds none. _How could the Conclave have been destroyed?_ she wonders. The presence of so many mages, Templars, and Chantry soldiers should have given the most aggressive opponents pause. She can feel the violence bubbling under Cassandra’s skin like it’s a physical presence in the room. _Better to see what else they can tell me than to blunder in the dark when I don’t know where the knives are waiting,_ she decides, remaining silent. 

Cassandra grabs her forearm and the mark flares to life again. The rough movement sends pain shooting down her arm and she exhales sharply in surprise.

“Explain this.” Cassandra is close enough to her now that she can see the worry lines at the corners of her eyes.

“I… can’t.” Her mouth is dry and the words come as a rasp.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” The Seeker tightens her hold on her arm. The blood pounds in her temples and she feels like a cornered animal. She desperately marshals her control, pushing away the temptation to strike the Seeker with her magic. Seekers are not Templars; they can’t block magic by stopping a mage from imposing their will on the world like knights can. But they have other abilities that let them bring mages to heel, she knows. It’s the thought of those abilities that makes her breathe slowly and evenly, pushing her panic and fear into a corner to be dealt with later.

 _Tread softly_ , the thought cautions, sounding suspiciously like Lydia.

“I don’t know what that is or how it got there.” She says with forced calm.

“You’re lying!” Cassandra raises her left hand to deliver a blow but is stopped by Leliana’s touch at her shoulder.

“We need her, Cassandra.” Leliana’s speaks softly, yet with an undercurrent of steel.

The prisoner unlocks her jaw and lets out a soft breath. “So, what happens now?” Her other questions, _Will you kill me for surviving, for not giving you the answers you seek?_ remain unasked but echo in the silence of the room.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” Leliana has not moved, but the air seems to crackle under the force of her attention.

Probing the darkness in her memories feels like trying to remember the last ragged edges of a dream. Closing her eyes without conscious thought, she casts her mind back. Slowly, slowly, like trying to wrestle its way through wet sand, a memory comes.

“I remember… running. Things were chasing me.” _The scratch of legs—too many legs—on stone, the smell of blood, and underneath that, a rotting fear that seems to sink under her skin and settle in her bones. Over everything, a sky burns and ripples with a sickly green fire. There’s something ahead of her though, something… maybe someone? Calling to her, urging her forward. She can’t see her face… why can’t she see her face?_

She shudders under Cassandra’s hold without meaning to. “And then… a woman?”

Something in Leliana’s gaze sharpens at those words. “A woman?”, she prompts.

In her mind’s eye she can almost see it, a figure in white that stretches out, “She reached out to me, but then…” the memory ends abruptly.

Her eyes snap open at Cassandra’s brusque words, “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

Leliana pauses for a long moment before nodding once and leaving the prisoner and Seeker alone.

Cassandra could kill her easily now, and without risking witnesses. She has no illusions about trying to resist a warrior of her caliber. For a second, she thinks death is exactly what the Seeker intends, when Cassandra reaches for something at her belt.

But instead of a knife, Cassandra is holding a key and a length of rope. The shackles clatter to the ground. Before she's realized it, her hands have been bound with rope.

“What did happen? To the Conclave, and the others?” Her voice is quiet, but she can't help the spark of hope that ignites in her chest. _Not death, at least not immediately,_ she thinks.

Cassandra seems to lose the sharp edge of her anger and weariness takes its place. “It would be easier just to show you.” The Seeker moves to the door but makes no effort to hold onto the rope. _Because she thinks there’s nowhere to run,_ she realizes grimly.

The door is unlocked and she stumbles as she walks behind Cassandra. Her legs ripple with pins and needles from disuse. Sooner than she expects, they’re outside. The sight of the sky stops her cold. She blinks in the daylight, her mind spinning, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing.

There’s a _tear_ … in the _sky_. It feels like magic; an eruption of magic larger than anything she’s ever felt. _It feels like the mark on my hand_.

Through her distraction, she realizes that Cassandra is saying something to her. “We call it the Breach. It’s a rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest.”

 _There’s a hole in the sky… More than one, and it’s getting worse,_ she understands with horror.

“All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

She turns to Cassandra, disbelieving. “An explosion could do _this_?” waving a hand at the tear with its sickly green flares of magic.

Cassandra huffs, “This one did. And unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

The prisoner searches the Seeker’s eyes, looking for the jest that isn’t there.

 _Well, fuck me,_ she thinks hopelessly.

There’s a flash of light above them and she sees the Breach grow. A second later her hand throbs painfully. Her vision goes white as pain eclipses all thought and reason. The force of it knocks her off her feet. When she can see again, she looks up at the Seeker and for a second sees an expression of something like sympathy.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads,” Cassandra motions to the slash across her left palm, “and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

Suspicion and a sinking sense of dread drag the words out of her, “You say the mark _may_ be the key to stopping this? How?”

Cassandra studies her for a long moment. “By closing the Breach.”

As if that’s the most obvious thing in the world. _Which, to be fair, I might have also realized were I not injured and in shooting pain._

“Whether it’s possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however. And yours,” continued the Seeker.

The prisoner scowls at these words. It feels like there’s a vice tightening around her neck; a noose of obligation and responsibility that she never sought. _All I’ve ever wanted was to be left alone. To have my magic, my books, and the freedom to ride where I choose without fear,_ she despairs.

That was the whole reason she'd agreed to travel to the blasted Conclave in the first place. The name she'd discarded— _that had discarded you_ , she thinks with an ache—had been deemed useful to the remnants of the Circle. She'd agreed to traffic on her birthright— _Trevelyan, Modest in Temper Bold in Deed. My ass—_ to serve as an observer at the Conclave.

The others had understood that her price for this service was her freedom from the Circle. She'd planned to write her reports and slip away after the Conclave, to go where the wind would take her. Between heartbeats, she has a vision of what such a future might have been like. She sees a house tucked into a glade by the sea, a warm fire with a book she can read at her leisure, a cup of tea steaming at her side. There’s no one watching over her shoulder to see if she’ll be overtaken by demons. There’s no sword at the corner of her eye, waiting to strike her down. There’s no scent of fear in her nose or taste of blood in her mouth. In this future, which feels as fragile as a spider’s web, she is free. 

Bitterly, she folds that dream up and tucks it into a corner of her heart for safekeeping.

Right now, there's no escape that she can see. Not from the Seeker and not from the Breach in the sky. Her mind has already snaked through the various possibilities and discarded them. If the Seeker is right—and with the proof hanging in the sky above their heads she has no reason to doubt the woman—the Breach is swallowing this world and killing her in the process. There is nowhere she could run to be free of this burden. Her only chance at freedom is to find a way to rid herself of this mark or to die trying. Only after, if there is an _after_ since this feels like the end of the world, could she hope to find something as fragile as her freedom.

“I understand,” she says as Cassandra helps her to her feet.

“Then…?” the Seeker prompts.

“I will do what I can to close the Breach. Whatever it takes.” There’s no magic in these words, but she feels bound by them nonetheless. The Seeker look almost approving.

With some of the ice broken between them, Cassandra leads her through a town-- _Haven,_ she remembers--that has seen better days. There’s ash on the ground from fires burning at the edge of the hold. Barriers have been hastily built near the main gates. Everyone is armed. Many of the weapons are meager; she sees pitchforks and sickles and even a blacksmith’s hammer, but the people hide their fear under anger. An icy hand grips her spine in creeping fear. These people would tear her apart, if not for Cassandra at her side.

Clearly thinking the same thing, Cassandra quickens her pace. “They have decided your guilt. They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between the mages and Templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

 _I don't think she knows that I was there on behalf of a Circle._ The thought surprises her, but as they continue, the more she believes it to be true. Cassandra has made no reference to her powers as a mage, only to the mark on her hand. She may not even know that she is a Trevelyan. Perhaps all she knows is that she was at the Conclave when it was attacked. _Well if the Seeker doesn't know, then I'm not going to tell_ _her_. There may be some advantage to keeping her abilities quiet until she knows what is expected of her.

They are outside the gates sooner than she expects. The guards seem more than happy to bar the doors behind them.

“We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did. Until the breach is sealed.” Cassandra says determinedly.

The Seeker faces her, dagger in hand. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” Cassandra cuts her loose without further elaboration. The tension binding her wrists together disappears and there is rope on the ground. Finished, the Seeker turns and begins walking away. “Come. It is not far.” She does not wait to see if the prisoner follows, her strides swallowing the ground easily.

“Where are you taking me?” Although she is of similar height, the prisoner scrambles to keep pace.

There is anticipation in the Seeker’s eye when she responds, “Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.”

* * *

They reach a bridge in only a few minutes of walking and the prisoner observes the damage around her almost clinically. There are villagers interspersed with Chantry soldiers here, but the soldiers clearly bore the brunt of the assault. There’s blood on the ground and almost everyone is bandaged in some way. A path has been cleared so that reinforcements can travel more easily. Broken crates, benches, and barrels have been used reinforce a meager wooden wall— _More of a cow fence really_ —and provide barriers for soldiers to take cover.

From what she can tell, the wounded are being taken back to Haven. Over the middle of the bridge, she passes a man with blood on his face who refuses to be moved. He says nothing, simply gazing at the ground between his feet and rocking gently, back and forth, back and forth. Something about his despair tears at her. She pulls her gaze away from his private grief, only for it to land on the bodies of the dead.

People, and their mounts, are already dark with flies despite the snow on the ground. The smell of blood, and rot, and ash is everywhere and soon it is sinking into her clothes, her skin, her hair. It is a horror, but Cassandra does not pause or break stride. This is not the battle, only the aftermath, and there is nothing she can do for these people. In the end, the prisoner follows in Cassandra’s wake like a boat listing towards shore.

Once over the far side of the bridge, Cassandra calls out the guards. “Open the gate! We are headed into the valley!”

The guards hesitate for a second before realizing who addresses them. They run to crank the gate open. The smell of death only increases when they are through the gate. She sees barricades on both sides of the doors, manned by soldiers who look like they haven’t slept in an age.

Cassandra is relentless and the prisoner breaks into a loping jog to keep up, hampered by the sharp pain that cuts through her when she takes too deep a breath. A wagon is burning, the fire throwing sparks as the move past. Just beyond, a mage lies with his eyes open and unseeing, staff in his hand. There's a slash across his torso that is black with old blood.

A Templar, skin still blistering from the touch of a burn spell, lies dead with his sword in his hand. _Apparently even a hole in the sky wasn't enough to stop these two from killing each other_ , she thinks resignedly.

The path curves uphill and when they crest, the slash on her palm flares. _Feels like it’s getting worse_ , she thinks grimly, pain traveling from her palm to her elbow. She's knocked to her knees from the force of it, counting breaths in and out to try and ride out the worst.

Cassandra helps her to her feet, “The pulses are coming faster now. The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear and the more demons we face.”

“How _did_ I survive the blast?” she asks, confusion and frustration written on her face.

“They said you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you.” Cassandra has already made her way down the hill when she pauses to look back over her shoulder, “No one knows who she was. Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I suppose you’ll see soon enough.”

By the time they reach the second bridge, her lungs are on fire and every breath is a struggle. She barely has time to note the bodies before a high-pitched whistling fills her ears. Wind tousles her hair before a thunderous crash from behind throws her forward. If not for Cassandra’s quick reflexes she'd have fallen on her face. A glance backwards shows that the bridge behind them is gone, crushed by a rock— _A meteor,_ her mind supplies unhelpfully--from the sky.

They’re both running now, trying to get clear what's left of the bridge, but another crash to their right throws them onto the frozen river below.

She lands on her side; her vision swimming from tears at the impact to her ribs. _What I wouldn’t give for an Elfroot potion right about now, vile as those are,_ she wishes helplessly.

A bolt of light cracks the ground a few yards in front of them, revealing a demon. _Rage demon_ , _resistant to fire, weak to ice,_ she thinks in the part of her mind that isn't consumed with fear.

“Get behind me!” The Seeker has drawn her sword and has her shield raised in a defensive crouch.

The prisoner backs away, looking frantically around her for a weapon, any weapon. A sword, a knife, a _rock_ even. _Anything would be better than being barehanded._ Helplessness tastes bitter and her mouth is dry with it.

Something glints at her from the rubble of the bridge. Before she can think twice, a staff is in her hands.

This staff was obviously meant for someone smaller than her. It’s unbalanced and too light. A clear crystal glints in the sun and casts a shadow of rainbows on the frozen river. The previous wielder was apparently a specialist in ice magic; there is spellwork in the wood intended to amplify spells of freezing and breaking. Water has always been one of her weakest elements, only her grasp of Spirit magic is worse. But there’s nothing to be done for it now. Any weapon is better than no weapon. _I hope. As long as the damned thing doesn’t explode on me before the demon kills us both._

Apparently what she lacks in skill for ice magic, she makes up for in sheer bloody-minded _rage_.

The spell lashes out of her like a whip, catching the Rage demon by surprise and freezing it in place under two inches of ice. The power of the cast surprises her, but she has no time to dwell as the Rage demon is already melting through its prison.

Cassandra batters away at it with her sword and her shield but the demon is resilient. It breaks through the ice with an ominous _crack._

The demons claws are reaching for Cassandra’s eyes when a bolt of lightning makes it arch and pull away. The Seeker puts her sword through its neck and shatters it into green smoke.

Before she can celebrate their victory, Cassandra has caught her at the end of her sword.

“Drop your weapon. _Now,_ ” the Seeker orders. There is tension in every line of the Seeker’s body, but the sword doesn’t waver an inch.

The prisoner freezes with her salvaged staff in hand.

The possibilities unspool before her. She could agree with Cassandra and drop the staff, but there’s no guarantee that the Seeker won’t punish her for picking it up in the first place.

She could say nothing, and hope the situation defuses. _Those are probably the safer options,_ she thinks.

Her patience breaks in that moment though. She’s exhausted, her memory is missing, and she's stuck with a magical mark that is painfully killing her with every passing moment.

_And now we’re being attacked by demons. Does she expect me to cower behind her, defenseless? Not bloody likely._

She snaps at the speaker, “Do you really think I need a staff to be dangerous?”

Cassandra's gaze flickers over her. “Is that supposed to reassure me?” She sounds incredulous.

“I haven’t used my magic against you yet,” the prisoner retorts.

The words hang in the air between them for a long moment as the implications sink in. No mage is truly powerless, after all.

 _Except in the presence of Templars,_ the thought is a cold reminder.

Cassandra stares at her, taking in the way she’s holding her side gingerly, the staff held loosely in her left hand and pointing at the ground. She vaguely wonders if she looks as bone-tired as she feels.

Finally, the Seeker exhales and lowers her weapon. “You’re right. You don’t need a staff, but you should have one.” The surprise must be written across her face because the Seeker continues, “I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless.”

_Now isn’t that a pleasant feeling? We’re halfway to friends already._

To herself Cassandra mutters, “I should remember that you agreed to come willingly.” She pulls something from a pouch at her belt. “Here, drink this and let us leave quickly before more demons come. We have a way to go yet.” The Seeker sheaths her sword but keeps it loose in the scabbard, unwilling to be caught off guard again.

Between bitter swallows of Elfroot potion and valiantly trying not to gag as the draught goes down and hits her empty stomach, she hears the Seeker speaking.

“What was that?” she asks, grimacing at the taste of Elfroot in her mouth.

“What is your name?” Cassandra prompts again.

This startles a laugh out of her. Since waking, she’s been bound, interrogated, and threatened with death. _I guess introductions are in order, at last,_ she thinks ruefully.

Her smile feels feral as she responds, “You can call me Shara.”

* * *

They set an aggressive pace across the frozen river, dispatching the shades that attack them without fuss. Picking their way over ice and around bodies, Cassandra studies her companion discretely. The woman, _Shara_ , she reminds herself, is quiet. She speaks little but moves competently across the terrain.

Shara is careful to keep the staff angled away from Cassandra whenever possible, almost as if she’s trying to put Cassandra at ease. That she would make the effort raises her in the Seeker’s esteem. _She thinks of others, even in her own pain and discomfort_ , Cassandra notes.

The woman is tall and lean, almost wiry, but her clear brown eyes are steady as she studies the wreckage and the bodies they encounter. _Hiding her emotions? Or perhaps used to battle?_ Cassandra speculates.

She’s clearly not Ferelden if the dark honey color of her skin and the accent on her voice are anything to go by. _Antivan, maybe. Or Rivain_ _i._ She makes a note to raise the question with Leliana.

As they travel, Cassandra wonders for the hundredth time what Shara’s purpose had been at the Conclave. It’s obvious now that she’s a mage, but there were no mages of her description in any of the rebel circles from Ferelden, Leliana had already checked.

If forced to guess, Cassandra would have ventured the accent to be from the Free Marches. But most of those that hail from the Free Marches favor their pale Ferelden cousins to the south, making Shara’s darker complexion a puzzle. _I guess it does not matter now, in any case_ _,_ she decides. Some questions could wait for another day.

The next camp is barely controlled chaos when they arrive. Shara is breathing hard again and Cassandra can see a green light pulsing in the woman’s clenched fist. They spot two figures fighting back to back. _Varric and the apostate_ _elf_ , Cassandra notes. 

There are demons and shades all around them, and she and Shara move to assist. Cassandra loses track of Shara for a few moments, until three of the demons to her left are blown open by a bolt of lightning.

Lightning is a difficult element to master, she knows from her own scant studies of battle magic. Like fire, it requires a sharp mind and an iron will to keep it contained. _She’s strong. Very strong. Which makes her dangerous_ , a voice whispers in her mind, _Watch her closely_.

Working together, the four of them dispatch the rest of the demons. The elf strides over to Shara and grabs her left wrist, raising it to the sky, “Quickly, before more come through!”

Shara is too surprised from the sudden contact and weary from the fighting to twist away. There’s a rift in the sky in front of her and something in her mark _connects_ with the tear. A jolt of white fire burns up her arm and there’s a moment where it feels like she’s trying to hold lightning in her hand.

She can _feel_ the hole in the sky as if it’s a physical opening. Her fingers scramble for purchase and something seems to click into place. Without conscious thought, she _pulls_ , as if shutting a heavy door and the rift closes with a crack.

The elf has dropped her arm like it’s scalded him. She turns to him now, “ _What did you do?_ ” Her voice is hard with the question, cutting through the sudden silence around them.

He merely raises an eyebrow in return, “ _I_ did nothing. The credit is yours.”

She unclenches her fist, revealing the mark— _seems a little smaller now, interesting—_ “You mean this?”

The elf gives her the slightest nod of acknowledgement, “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

Cassandra interrupts, “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself?”

He turns to her now, voice thoughtful. “Possibly.”

 _As votes of confidence go, that is decidedly underwhelming_ , Shara thinks sourly. Later, much later, she would wonder at the providence of meeting an elf who knows so much about the mark. Who is so conveniently placed to advise her on the happenings of the Fade, but that is far in the future and her exhaustion makes her accept the things she would later question.

The elf has moved away and is collecting a pack from the ground, throwing it over his shoulder, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” the voice is so cheerful that Shara finds herself grinning at the speaker despite herself. He’s a dwarf, from the look of it, with a complicated looking crossbow resting on his shoulder. She shakes his proffered hand, still smiling. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” Varric throws a wink at Cassandra who scowls.

For some reason her smile broadens. He seems utterly unperturbed by the tall woman’s glare, _the dwarf has stones_ , she laughs to herself. After the nightmare this day has been, it feels good to smile. Varric’s eyes are twinkling as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

“It’s good to meet you Varric, you can call me Shara.”

The elf lets out a small, almost undignified, snort at this, “You may reconsider that stance, in time.”

 _Someone’s a stick in the mud_ , Shara thinks humorlessly.

Varric’s cheer only seems to grow. “Aww. I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Solas.” 

Solas himself looks decidedly unimpressed at this statement.

Cassandra cuts in before they can continue their banter, “Absolutely not. Your help is… appreciated, Varric, but…” The tone of her voice makes it clear that while his help is many things, _appreciated_ is probably not one of them.

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control any more. You need me.” Varric interrupts Cassandra.

The noise Cassandra makes at this statement is so disgusted that Shara bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing again.

Solas has a staff in his hand when he returns to the three of them. “My name is Solas, if we are to make introductions. I’m pleased to see you still live.”

Varric quirks an eyebrow at her, “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

 _And how did he know how to do that?_ Shara wonders. The suspicion comes easy, but she tries to keep it from her voice. “You seem to know a great deal about… all of this,” she waves a hand to indicate their surroundings and the Breach.

Cassandra responds first, “Like you, Solas is an apostate.” Shara stops herself from correcting Cassandra; the woman isn’t entirely wrong after all, even if she had been Circle trained for most of her life, the last year has seen the Circle broken.

Solas has no such reservations, “Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra. My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed regardless of origin.”

His words ring true, and yet there is a warning underlying them. _He’s telling us that he’s valuable. That he has information we need and warning us not to push his open hand away. Open hands can easily become clenched fists, after all._ This assessment comes to her in the blink of an eye and she files it away as something else to consider later.

Shara can’t help herself from pushing him just a little though, “And what will you do once this is all over?” The question is heavy with unspoken meaning, united as they are in their status as apostates.

“One _hopes_ that those in power will remember who helped and who did not.” Solas says pointedly. The corner of Shara’s mouth quirks up at this; clearly this message is intended for the Right Hand of the Divine.

He continues, “Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your… ‘prisoner’,” he says the word almost delicately, “is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

Whatever easy mood had been building between the four of them falls away at these words, overtaken by a sense of urgency. Cassandra nods sharply, in command again, “Understood, we must get to the forward camp quickly.”

The Seeker leads them up to the bank of the frozen river again, not waiting to see if they will follow and Shara falls in step behind her. Varric comes next, with Solas closing the rear. They move carefully over the narrow path, which is strewn with rubble. Although it feels slow, they make good time.

Suddenly the mark flares again and Shara can’t help the stumble of pain. She leans heavily on her borrowed staff.

“Shit are you alright?” Varric sounds concerned as he catches her at the elbow. She can’t speak for the pain for several seconds and just nods in reply.

“My magic cannot stop the mark from growing further. For your sake I suggest we hurry.” Solas urges them on.

Shara climbs to her feet, swallowing the bile in her throat from the pain and blinking stars out of her eyes. All of the nerves in her left arm feel as if they have been filled with molten glass. She grits her teeth and forces the words out, “He’s right. It’s getting worse. We have to keep moving.”

Cassandra, thankfully, ignores the weakness in her voice and her stance. “Let us go.”

After a few minutes Shara can breathe again and the pain in her arm fades to a throb. She employs the meditation techniques that she learned as a young child; counting to five for each inhale and exhale.

Varric, seemingly oblivious to her attempt to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, asks “So… are you innocent?” His voice is casual and devoid of judgment, but Shara freezes for a split second before walking on. Deliberately, she relaxes the sudden tension in her shoulders. She can feel Cassandra and Solas’ attention on her even if they are careful to not look in her direction. She knows Varric has seen her reaction and she wonders what he makes of it.

“I don’t remember what happened,” she says guardedly.

“That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.” She can’t see his face, but it sounds like he’s smirking at her.

Shara grins back; the dwarf is too canny by half, but she likes him anyway.

“That’s what _you_ would have done.” Cassandra accuses.

Varric agrees readily, “It’s more believable, and less prone to result in premature execution.”

He winks at her when she catches his eye.

* * *

Climbing the narrow staircase leading up to the road is torture on Shara’s knees; she slips more than once on the icy steps. No one speaks, but Solas looks worriedly at Cassandra whenever she glances back.

Her body aches with every step. _Maker’s breath, I’m so tired. I want to crawl into bed and sleep for a week._ Her stomach helpfully lets out a growl, reminding her that she also hasn’t eaten in hours, perhaps days. _Never mind. Food first then bed,_ she amends.

Finally, _finally,_ they reach the top.

 _Of course, it can’t be that easy,_ Shara thinks resignedly. There is a rift in front of the gates and they move to engage, although the battle ends before it really begins. Shara casts fire this time, not trusting her control over lightning nor her unreliable skill with ice.

The fire burns hot and fast. Varric’s crossbow— _Bianca he calls it; wonder if that was meant as a complement?—_ and Cassandra’s sword make short work of the shades after that. Her control slips for a moment and a barrier in front of the gate starts to burn before she puts it out with a flicker of will.

 _Sloppy_ , she thinks disgustedly. She’s too worn down. Any more of this without food or rest and she won’t be able to trust herself to cast at all.

* * *

Inside the forward camp they find Leliana arguing with someone. Shara’s head pounds in time with the throbbing in her arm and she sits heavily on a crate.

Cassandra goes to join Leliana. Through the open tent flap, Shara can make out a man wearing Chantry robes. She’s too far away to hear their words, but Leliana is clearly losing her temper.

Cassandra— _to be fair, doesn’t seem like someone who has much control of her temper anyway—_ is wrestling control of the conversation away from whoever the man is. Shara is too tired to care much either way and her eyes flutter closed.

Varric settles next to her, handing her a flask that she sniffs experimentally before downing in several gulps. The water tastes like delicate wine, she’s so thirsty.

He passes her a wedge of bread layered with cheese and she’s tearing into it with her teeth when Cassandra and Leliana exit the tent. Irritation is still written on Leliana’s face although she carefully smooths it away when she stops in front of Shara.

Shara chews slowly as Leliana speaks, “We are agreed that we must take you to the Temple. But we cannot agree on the path.” She pauses before continuing, “There is a path through the mountains, some of my scouts were supposed to secure it, but we lost contact with them several hours ago. It is indirect but will get you to the Temple unseen.”

“The mountains are too risky, we should mount an assault with our soldiers and take the Temple from the front.” Cassandra responds tiredly. Clearly this is something that they have discussed before. Leliana merely exhales at this statement, neither agreeing nor offering counter argument.

Instead, her gaze settles on Shara. “How do _you_ think we should proceed?”

Shara swallows before answering, “You’re asking for _my_ opinion?” Her voice is carefully neutral. Unsaid, but implied, is the fact that she had been their prisoner, threatened with execution, just that morning. 

“You have the mark.” Solas interjects. This simple statement lands like a stone thrown into a still lake.

 _Ah yes, the mark. The only way to close the rifts and the only thing keeping me alive right now,_ she thinks cynically. Shara is under no illusions. If the mark didn’t close the rifts, she wholeheartedly believes they’d kill her and be satisfied for eliminating the threat she poses as a mage.

Cassandra hums in agreement, her gaze thoughtful, “Yes. You have the mark. And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…” She trails off, indicating that the choice is left to Shara.

Something in the way that Leliana and Cassandra are watching her makes her mull the two options cautiously. She knows little of the Chantry’s soldiers, but the ones that she’s encountered on her journey here seem competent. Professional, even. From what she can tell, they hadn’t tortured her while they held her in captivity even though it would have been easy enough for the likes of them. _A Templar probably would have put a sword through my heart while I lay senseless and been done with it_ , she muses.

The Chantry soldiers are battered and bruised but seem to have a core of strength to them. _The scouts on the other hand…_ the thought trails away. Leliana has not spoken further, but she can see the faint creases of worry at the corner of her eyes. _What defense do scouts have against shades and demons?_

With regret in her heart she rises to her feet. She knows she is consigning men to their deaths. _But the soldiers can fight, they are a credit to whoever trained them; and the scouts are living on a knife’s edge,_ she concludes. Still, the words don’t come easy. “Let us work together and take the mountain path.”

Cassandra looks disappointed for a second before nodding and moving away to pass the instructions on to the soldiers. “Leliana. Bring anyone that is left in the valley to the Temple,” she calls over her shoulder.

Relief flashes across Leliana’s face and there is gratitude in her eyes that Shara did not expect to see.

Preparations move quickly after that. Shara is bullied into drinking another Elfroot potion by a healer that someone prodded into checking her ribs. _Varric, probably._ She mentally curses the dwarf as the bitter liquid coats her tongue.

Leliana finds her before they are about to leave, wordlessly offering her a new staff. Shara gladly surrenders the one she had recovered in the rubble. The new staff is better suited to her height and the crystal pulses a soft gold when she wraps her hand around the shaft. She gives it a few experimental swings, testing the balance and the weight. Not perfect, not like a staff made just for her, but infinitely better than the salvaged one she had been using. She nods gratefully at the red-haired woman. Leliana is not a mage, but clearly she understands something of magic.

Shara steals a short dagger from the weapons master when no one is looking and slips it into her boot. She’s hopeless with a sword, but she’s decent enough with a knife in close quarters if it comes down to it.

As they trek through the mountain stone, she thanks her lucky stars that they hadn’t taken her boots when she was prisoner. Her clothes are caked with sweat and dirt and blood, but the waterproofing on her boots holds and her toes stay dry. She resists the urge to scratch at her skin where her stiff tunic rubs uncomfortably.

 _If I live through this, I’m going to bathe in the hottest water I can make and then sleep for a week_ , she promises herself.

The wind is cutting, despite her cloak, and Shara shivers as it snakes down her back. Through great will, she resists the urge to cast a warming spell. Better to save her strength for the fight than to burn through her energy and fail when it really matters. Sooner than she expects, they arrive at the entrance to a tunnel.

She knows that this is the only way to reach the scouts who were investigating the route to the Temple, but the tunnel makes her tense and uncomfortable. She’s hated confined spaces since she was a child. It feels like the weight of the mountain is pressing down on her and at any moment the ceiling will slip, crushing her bones to dust.

No one else seems to share this concern so she does her best to manage it in silence. She visualizes gathering up her fear and putting it into a separate room of her mind, latching the door closed. It’s a mental trick that she had learned in the Circle and it helps.

Just as she’s thinks that they will be lucky and pass through the tunnel unnoticed, they’re attacked by shades. Between the four of them they make short work of the creatures, even in the tight quarters.

They reach the entrance of the tunnel shortly thereafter, and spot the bodies of three soldiers lying at the entrance.

“Looks like we found the soldiers.” Varric sighs.

Cassandra’s crouches next to a body, her brow furrowed, “This cannot be all of them. Leliana would not have sent so few.”

“Our priority must be the Breach. Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.” Solas radiates impatience.

Varric raises an eyebrow, “I’m leaving _that_ to the woman with the glowing hand.” He looks at the bodies once more, “Should we try to… move them or something?”

Shara shakes her head, “I will do whatever I can, but Solas is right. We must keep moving. If the scouts and other soldiers are ahead then we can’t linger here.” She hates leaving the bodies like this, but there is no time to do anything else. The mark is beginning to burn again, a creeping pain that is crawling up her wrist and she knows another flare is coming.

Cassandra rises smoothly, “Let’s go then.” They speak no more until the find the survivors at the end of the path. Four soldiers in Chantry heraldry are in a perimeter around two men in unmarked clothes.

 _Must be the scouts,_ Shara thinks. The soldiers are desperately trying to hold off the shades rushing through an open rift.

“Lady Cassandra!” one calls out in relief.

Cassandra can’t keep the joy from her voice, “You’re alive!”

“Just barely,” He turns to slash at a shade.

Shara ignores everyone, focusing on the rift. She raises her hand and feels that same uncanny _connection_ again. It’s harder this time to grasp the edges of the tear, it almost seems to slip through her fingers, but she catches it eventually and pulls it closed with a grunt.

Leaning heavily on her staff, she waits for the dizziness that hits her to pass. The mark has quieted again, but she can tell it is still growing. For a moment, there’s blood on her tongue and the smell of rot and fire in her nose.

No one seems to notice her weakness and for that she’s grateful. She barely knows these people, but she likes most of them nonetheless. She promises to do what she can to keep them alive for as long as she’s able.

Cassandra helps a soldier to his feet.

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.” There’s a flash of guilt in Cassandra’s eyes that only Shara catches. Cassandra had wanted to take the other path after all. _If she had gotten her way, these men would be dead by now_ , she thinks.

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. She insisted we come this way.” Cassandra is honest to a fault and cannot accept credit without giving fair due.

The soldier blinks in surprise at this. “The prisoner? Then you…?”

“It was worth saving you, if we could.” Shara interrupts before he can finish his question. The soldier considers her for several seconds. She wonders what’s he’s heard about her, if he is planning on pushing the issue of her current freedom with the Seeker.

“Then you have my sincere gratitude,” he says instead.

Shara only nods at this and motions to the path behind them, “The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.”

There is weariness etched into his stance, but he rouses himself and starts organizing the others, “At once.” He clasps her right forearm in a soldier’s greeting before departing. There’s a bloody handprint on her sleeve when he lets go. “Thank you,” he says. The words are sincere, which surprises a smile out of her in response.

After the soldiers and the scouts are out of sight, Solas takes the lead, urging, “The path ahead appears to be clear of demons for now. Let us hurry before that changes.”

* * *

Somehow the path to the temple is strewn with more destruction than the roads through valley. It looks like something launched several tons of stone into the sky and then a giant had picked up the pieces to throw around for amusement.

The Temple itself is a charred, blasted ruin. They have been traveling quietly ever since splitting from the soldiers, but silence solidifies around them as four sets of eyes absorb the sight in front of them.

There are bodies everywhere, bones blackened and crumbling to ash in the breeze. Whatever happened here killed everyone in an instant. Or so Shara hopes.

 _Maker, please let that be true,_ she pleads _._ A sick feeling rises in her throat. _Did I do this? Could I have lost control and done something like this?_ She holds back the urge to retch.

Bodies are one thing, but this… wasteland is another. She counts at least thirty skulls, maybe more. Did she know any of these people? She had friends, of a sort, among the other Circles. Had they been at the Conclave? Did they have time to realize what was happening before the explosion scoured them away?

The mark in her palm throbs and for a second, she hates it. Hates Cassandra and Varric and Solas for bringing her here. But above all, hates herself for not remembering. For not _knowing_ whether this happened at her hands. _How could I have survived this?_ She wonders.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes.” Solas is solemn in the gloom.

Varric sounds worn for the first time that day, “Or what’s left of it anyway.”

“This is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you. They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.” Cassandra is grim as she moves through the destruction.

They follow the Seeker through what remains of the entrance, pausing only when they catch sight of the Breach in the open sky above them.

“Ah fuck. That is a _long_ way up.” Varric breathes.

Shara shivers at this, knowing that he speaks the truth. The Breach is hanging at least a hundred feet or more above their heads and lashing black and green fire. It looks like a wound cut across the sky and the _wrongness_ of it twists her insides. Her palms are sweating; whether from fear or vertigo she can’t tell. She resists the urge to wipe them on her tunic. Looking across the ruin, she spots a smaller rift in what looks like it used to be a courtyard.

The mark is quiet, for once, but she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to reach the damn thing in the sky, let alone whether she can seal it.

“You’re here! Thank the Maker.” Leliana surprises them with her approach. The relief is evident in her voice, but the soldiers behind her watch Shara suspiciously.

Cassandra clasps her arm in greeting, relief evident on her face. They left the forward camp a few short hours ago, but the daylight is almost all gone and they’d had no word on whether the soldiers had been able to make it through the demons in the valley. “Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple.”

Leliana nods, already giving the order as she moves to organize the troops around her. Cassandra turns, her gaze unflinching when it lands on Shara. “This is your chance to end this.” She motions to the Breach in the sky.

 _As if I don’t know what she’s talking about,_ Shara thinks, the first trickle of hysteria bubbling inside her.

Cassandra sees the blood drain from Shara’s face when the mage looks at the Breach, but the woman is keeping a tight rein on her emotions aside from that.

Shara nods sharply, “I’ll do my best, but I’ll be honest. Unless you know how to fly me up there, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to reach that,” she jerks her thumb towards the Breach, “thing.”

The mage sounds almost apologetic, like it’s her fault that she can’t fly up to the hole in the sky to close it. _If nothing else, she’s a fighter. She’ll try._ Cassandra thinks approvingly.

Unexpectedly, it’s Solas that comes to the rescue, “No, the rift down in the ruins was the first and is the key. Seal it and perhaps we can seal the Breach.”

Suspicion lances through Shara again. _How does he know this? Surely simply knowing about the Fade isn’t enough to tell you this much from a single glance?_ She wonders. But she’d always been weak in Spirit magic and disinterested in the Fade, so she lets the suspicion pass from her mind.

“Let’s find a way down, in that case.” Varric says. He leads the way this time, crossbow secure in his grip. As their path spirals closer to the rift, they suddenly hear voices coming from the Fade.

“ _Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”_ The voice is distorted, almost guttural. Recognition flickers in Shara’s mind but she can’t hold on to it.

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra demands.

“At a guess: The person who created the Breach.” Solas’ response is clipped.

 _“Someone help me!”_ a woman calls desperately _._

“That’s Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra overtakes Varric in her rush to get to the rift.

“ _Keep the sacrifice still.”_ The harsh voice says to someone that they can’t see.

They’re near enough to the rift that a murky green light casts shadows on their faces and glints in their eyes. “ _Someone help me, please!”_ The Divine’s voice calls out again. From her position, Shara can see the helplessness on Cassandra’s face.

“ _What’s going on here?”_ This third voice makes them all freeze. They know that voice. _Shara_ knows that voice. It is unmistakably her own.

“That was your voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…” Cassandra asks hesitantly.

Before she can respond, Shara’s vision goes white. When it clears, she sees Divine Justinia restrained by something that glows with a sickly red light. Shara can’t turn her head, can’t feel Cassandra or the others next to her. For some reason she has no control of what’s happening. She can’t call up a spell or resist. She can do nothing but watch.

Her mouth opens and she asks the same question again, _“What’s going on here?”_

_This must be a memory then,_ she realizes. 

“ _Run while you can! Warn them!”_ The image of Justinia calls out to her.

“ _We have an intruder. Kill her. Now.”_ The guttural, distorted voice sounds closer than before. It snaps at someone she still can’t see.

There is another flare of white, and Cassandra is beside her again, hauling her to her feet. “You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine… was this vision true? What are we seeing?” she demands.

Shara has blood in her mouth and her ears are ringing. The edges of her vision are flickering. The mark is burning; it’s burning worse than it ever has and she’s never known pain like this before. The rift that had been in front of them is gone somehow.

Her voice is hoarse, but she manages to stammer, “I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“The Fade is bleeding into this place, showing us echoes of what happened here.” Solas interrupts. There’s a grim set to his mouth as he studies the area where the rift has been. “This rift… is not sealed, but it’s closed. Only temporarily, I think. I believe with the mark, it can be reopened and then sealed properly. However, opening the rift is going to draw attention from the other side.”

The warning is clear, and Cassandra visibly restrains into herself. Swallowing her questions, she draws her sword and unclasps her shield. Raising it into a defensive position, she positions herself closer the closed rift. “That means demons,” she raises her voice to carry to the soldiers that now surround them.

A tall figure takes position across from Cassandra on the other side of the clearing, nodding once in greeting. Face hidden behind his helm, Shara notes how soldiers are moving into formation around him. She watches how his troops look to him for guidance.

She almost ignores him, _A lion helm seems a bit… gaudy for a soldier_ , she muses. But something about the way he’s holding his shield, the angle of his sword, catches her attention. She knows that stance. She’s watched those practice forms for years at the Circle.

The more she studies him, the more certain she is. This soldier is a trained Templar. Discomfort and no little rage twist inside her at the realization.

 _Well, if he’s going to kill me for being an apostate, he can’t do it until the Breach is sealed. And if we’re honest, I’ll probably be dead by then anyway_. The thought is almost comforting.

“Commander.” Cassandra acknowledges.

“Seeker Cassandra,” comes the baritone response. “Stand ready!” he orders the soldiers around him.

Solas and Varric have taken up flanking positions around Shara and she’s grateful at the gesture.

Shara forces iron into her spine, refusing to cower in front of so many. The pain from the Fade memory is still with her when she raises the mark to where the rift is closed. She blinks past the bright spots in her vision.

Solas was right, she can feel a twist in the world in front of her where the rift is waiting. It’s like a door that’s off its frame and has been wedged open. The slightest pressure will throw it open, and it must be opened before it can be closed properly.

“Now!” Cassandra calls to her.

Her ears ring and pop painfully as she lets the mark grab hold of the rift. Her right hand clutches her staff, knuckles white, when she feels the rift resist her will—for a moment it feels like something alive, with a will of its own--and then the resistance tears like paper and there is green fire all around them.

With growing horror, she sees a Pride demon step out of the tear. From that moment on, her memory moves in stutters.

 _Blink._ Cassandra is in front of her, pushing back the shades that are now pouring from the rift. Her shield is a wall and her sword flashes brightly in the light of green fire.

 _Blink._ The steady _click click click_ of Varric’s crossbow ends in a soft _thump_ as the bolts enter the demon.

 _Blink._ Solas casts ice, freezing the demon’s legs in place but is unable to stop the terrible momentum of its claws.

 _Blink._ The Templar is slashing at the demon’s back, narrowly blocking a swipe from its claws with his shield and cutting at its neck in the next breath. _Maker, this Templar is fast, whoever he is_.

 _Blink._ It’s not enough. The demon is laughing, the shades are driving back the soldiers. She sees bodies on the ground and can’t tell if they’re alive or dead. If the blood is real or imagined.

The echoing rumble of the demon’s laugh makes something inside her snap. Suddenly she’s _so_ _fucking tired_ of being afraid, of being in pain, of seeing the dead and dying, that some last reserve of energy tumbles free and floods through her.

She calls down lightning, more than she ever has before, more than she ever thought she was capable of. The Pride demon’s laugh cuts off abruptly as its body arches and contorts from the shock of it. The stone underneath them cracks from its force and its heat. The bolt shatters out of the demon and collides with all the shades in its vicinity, vaporizing them instantly.

For a split second, everyone freezes. Distantly, she can feel their stares, but she doesn’t have the energy to pay attention. There are more _things_ coming towards the rift, trying to get out, she can feel them somehow. She knows that they can’t keep fighting like this.

In a distant part of her mind, Shara is vaguely aware that she’s fallen to one knee. Her staff is shattered, but she holds onto what’s left in a desperate effort to stay upright. There are tears in her eyes and her vision is going black. Her entire left side is numb with pain except for her palm which feels like it is burning with the heat of a miniature sun. She’s panting, her ribs too damaged now to let her take a full breath.

In that moment, she doesn’t know what gives her the strength to raise her hand one last time. She doesn’t know where she finds the will to _reach_ towards the rift with a sense she is only now realizing she has. She doesn’t know what gives her the strength to yank the tear closed and seal it for good. She does it anyway.

Vertigo makes her head spin. _So, this is what it feels like to die_ , she thinks.

That fragile dream of freedom that she’s carried in her heart for so long seems infinitely far away.

Shara doesn’t see the rift close, but she feels it.

In the next breath, she is empty, hollowed out, and can’t stay upright any more. She doesn’t feel herself collapsing, but sighs at the stone against her cheek. It’s rough, yet warm from the lightning. It comforts her somehow. 

Then the black takes her and she knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a new kind of story for me. I've never considered myself capable of writing a "traditional" narrative with plot, developed characters, dialogue, action, and all the rest. But for some reason these characters wouldn't leave me alone until I at least *tried*. 
> 
> I'm not sure if my writing skills do this story any justice. I apologize in advance for any spelling/grammar/verb tense mistakes (I don't have a beta). Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

_“The shepherd’s lost and his home is far”_

The silence after the rift closes lasts for just a moment before the soldiers behind him send up a ragged cheer. Cullen barely hears it over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Seeker Cassandra sheaths her sword when it becomes clear that there are no more shades to fight but he can’t seem to loosen his grip on his own.

For a second, in the heady rush that hits him after the battle, he’s back in a cell in Kirkwall. Surrounded by demons and he _can’t move_. Phantom pain lashes up his back and his arms where the demons had…marked him. _Tortured you_ , _more like,_ _and can you say you didn’t deserve it?_ whispers a nasty voice in his mind. Face hidden behind his helm, he chokes on his breath. 

For a second, he aches for the cool comfort of lyrium snaking down his throat.

Shuddering imperceptibly as the memory passes, he forces himself back to the present. He removes his helm with relief, already stepping back into his role as Commander of the Chantry’s soldiers.

“You, there, find the wounded and mark them for the healers,” he orders a soldier at his elbow. He turns to another, “Check for the dead and move them to the side. The healers will need space to work once they’re here.”

Gazing around him, he catalogues the dead and wounded. There’s at least two who will lose a limb from the looks of it, casualties of the demon’s claws. But there are fewer dead than he expected, and for that he’s grateful. His days have been filled with the dead since the explosion at the Conclave and he’ll accept any reprieve that’s offered.

 _I guess we have the mage to thank for that_ , he thinks. Cassandra, Varric, and the elf, are already gathered around the woman, blocking view of her from the eyes of his soldiers.

As he moves to join them, he hears the tinkle of glass under his boot. _Glass?_ Surprised, he looks down only to find shards of yellow crystal, broken facets catching the light of the Breach overhead. _A mage’s crystal. Made for casting fire_ _from the look of it,_ he notes. There’s splintered wood lying several feet away and he realizes that these are the remnants of the mage’s staff. _It must have shattered from the pressure of channeling the lightning_.

This understanding disturbs him and his shoulders tense with caution. He has been a Templar for long enough to know something of the tools of magic. Mage’s staffs are made to withstand enormous amounts of magical energy. For one to be shattered so completely… either the mage has lost control and been consumed by something in the Fade—and therefore needs to be eliminated— _Or they’re still human and simply that powerful._ He’s not sure which would be worse. 

Keeping a tight grip on his sword, he joins the others. The elf— _Solas—_ he remembers suddenly, is crouched next the mage, two fingers settled on her neck, an expression of intense concentration on his face. _Checking for a pulse,_ Cullen realizes.

Cassandra looks away from the mage when Cullen reaches her. As her eyes flicker to the sword in his hand, he reluctantly sheaths it, but does not relinquish his grip on the hilt. “Commander Cullen,” she acknowledges.

Varric gives him nod before Solas’ voice draws their attention back to the body on the ground, “She’s alive.” He rises to his feet in a smooth motion. “Barely. But alive nonetheless.”

Cullen inspects the mage for the first time. He has heard of her, of course, this woman his soldiers claim stumbled out of the Fade in the aftermath of the explosion. But he had not been there to witness her first appearance at the Temple of Sacred Ashes or her interrogation by the Hands of the Divine. There had been too many demons and too few soldiers left to fight them for him to spare any attention to the prisoner.

He studies her now, although it’s hard to make out details the dim light of the Breach. Everything is tinted green, but he thinks her complexion is too dark to be Ferelden. He doesn’t recognize the delicate tattoos that trace her brow and her eye like a hawk’s wing, nor discern the meaning of the small dots that edge the top of each cheek.

They’re obviously not the facial markings of the Dalish, but they’re not any tribal marking he’s seen before either. If she had been a Circle mage, as Leliana claims, he finds it surprising that they would have acquiesced to such tattoos once she was in their control. But maybe they do things differently outside of Ferelden. _Somewhere from the North, across the sea perhaps?_ He wonders.

The colors of her clothes are impossible to make out, but they’re cut like a mage’s vestment. The tunic is black with blood and he can’t tell if it’s hers or another’s.

There are dark bruises under her closed eyes and her breathing is shallow. A cut on her cheek is bleeding sluggishly. He can see a soft green light pulsing in her left hand. She looks battered and exhausted. He can hardly reconcile this image of her with the mage who blasted the Pride demon—a _nd Maker only knows how may shades_ , he thinks—into oblivion just a few minutes ago. No matter how broken she looks at the moment, his Templar training is screaming at him to draw his sword and cut her down.

 _Too much power. It’s only a matter of time before a demon takes her and uses her power to burn us all to ash._ The thought is something Meredith would have said and he flinches from it.

Even so, for a brief second, he’s tempted by its reasoning. Then the Breach flares above their heads and the temptation passes. It’s no longer releasing demons but it’s still impossible to ignore. Reluctantly, he acknowledges that this mage is the only one who can close the rifts. As much as he doesn’t like it, she may also be the only one who has any hope of closing the Breach and waking them from this nightmare.

She is clearly dangerous, but for now, he concedes, she is not their foremost threat. His hand finally releases the sword and settles at his side.

“We can’t stay here,” he tells the others. “There are still open rifts in this area and the demons will be drawn to us if we linger.” He nods at the unconscious body on the ground, “And we currently have no way of closing the cursed things.”

He turns to Solas, “Will she wake up? Or do we have to move her?”

Cassandra adds a further question, concern in her voice, “And what of the mark?”

Solas considers his answer before replying to them both. “I doubt she will wake any time soon. The mark is stable from what I can sense, but she has burned through her magical reserves almost completely, in the effort to resist its pull.” He gazes up at the Breach, expression unreadable, “Closing the rifts… takes great energy. I’m not sure that another could have managed the same feat, nor be capable of it so many times in a single day.”

Their mood, already sober, becomes contemplative as they consider these words.

The clatter of wagons breaks them from their stillness. Leliana’s scouts must have sent word back to Haven of the rift being closed. The healers have arrived. Cullen moves to meet the lead wagon, “Get her out of here then,” he orders, his attention already drawn elsewhere.

He hears Varric calling a wagon driver closer to the mage. A glance over his shoulder shows him Cassandra and Solas carefully maneuvering her body into the wagon bed. He spares them no more thought as he turns his focus back to his troops.

* * *

Cassandra, Solas, and Varric ride with Shara back to Haven. The journey is uneventful, but they keep sharp eyes on their surroundings throughout. Above them, the Breach remains a brutal reminder of the need for vigilance. The person lying unconscious at their feet is their only hope of closing the hole in the sky. They’re acutely aware that they can’t afford to be caught off guard with her so vulnerable.

An elven woman rides with them, ducking her head in greeting before mumbling that her name is Estel. She’s careful to keep the mage covered with a blanket and presses a bandage to the cut on her cheek. In the distance, they hear the high-pitched shriek of a shade.

 _I feel sorry for the unlucky bastard that thing is hunting,_ Varric thinks privately, tightening his hold on Bianca.

None of them speak until they arrive at the gates to Haven. The guards are already unlatching the gates when their wagon draws near. _Someone must have sent word ahead of us_ , Cassandra thinks as she raises a hand to greet the soldiers.

The wagon moves quickly through Haven, horses snorting pull to a stop in front of a small wooden dwelling. The scent of herbs hits Cassandra’s nose, _Apothecary_ , she notes absently. The door opens; a balding man, wrapped in brown robes and standing at least a head shorter than her, peers out into the torchlight.

A mulish look appears on his face when he sees the wagon and he opens his mouth to tell them to go elsewhere. Before he can get out a word, Estel jumps down from the wagon and sends a soft plea in his direction, “ _Please_ master Adan, they need your help.” She flicks back the worn blanket, briefly exposing the soft green glow of the mage’s palm.

Adan’s mouth closes with a snap and he visibly swallows his words. News of the prisoner has spread like wildfire through Haven. He knows who she is. There’s a sour look on his face as he mutters, “Bring her inside then. Quickly, quickly! Before we attract any others.” Eyes darting into the dark, he opens the door wider and lets them pass.

Between them, they manage to move Shara onto a small cot in the healer’s workshop. Estel is already moving to boil water over the small fire burning in the hearth. Adan takes a set of well-oiled shears from his work table and approaches the cot where Shara remains unconscious. As he begins cutting away her tunic, Varric clears his throat, catching Cassandra’s attention.

“I think it’s time for us to make our exit, don’t you, Pointy?” Solas grimaces at the nickname, but nods in agreement and follows Varric out the door. Cassandra latches it shut behind them.

Adan throws a questioning glance in her direction as she drags a stool to the foot of the cot. Her voice brooks no argument, “I’m staying.”

He shrugs, as if it makes no difference to him either way, “Suit yourself then.”

The shears are sharp and do their work quickly. Cassandra sees a map of purple and black bruises on the mage’s skin as the tunic falls away. Her breasts are bound, and the healer leaves the binding alone for the moment.

His mouth is a grim line as he inspects the discoloration across her stomach and ribs. Cassandra feels a spike of anger as she realizes that one particularly nasty bruise under Shara’s left breast likely came from a boot to the side. She and Leliana had ordered the guards not to torture her, but they had apparently interpreted those orders… broadly.

There is no response from Shara as Adan presses at her ribs, although Cassandra feels a twinge of sympathy in her own side at the sight. _That will hurt, when she wakes up_ , she thinks.

His voice is almost accusing as he says, “Fractured, at least. I don’t think they’re broken but it’s a near thing.” He instructs Estel in some healer’s shorthand before turning back to Cassandra, “There’s nothing I can do for the ribs except bind them. If you don’t want her to puncture a lung, no strenuous movement for three days at least, preferably a week if you can manage it.”

Cassandra nods, praying to the Maker that they’ll have the respite they so desperately need now that the rift at the Temple is closed and the Breach stabilized.

Adan turns his attention to the mage’s left arm. He cautiously uncurls her fingers and inspects the mark on her hand. Using a clean cloth and warm water, he gingerly swabs the mark clean. It pulses bright green for a moment before settling back into a soft glow. He freezes at the flare, waiting to see if something else will happen, but nothing does. After a few moments he gently cleans the blood and ash away from the rest of her arm.

Cassandra hadn’t realized just how dirty the mage had been. As the healer wipes the dirt away, she sees that the skin underneath is a shaded like deep honey. _Probably rules out Antiva then._ She makes a note to ask Josephine for her opinion soon.

Inspecting the woman for other injuries with a clinical eye, she notes complicated tattoos covering her right arm from forearm to shoulder. The design had been hidden by the mage’s tunic until now and she uses this opportunity to study it.

Flame and lightning spiral up her arm, meeting in a circular design that almost looks like a labyrinth. The bold symmetry of it relentlessly draws her eye, but the lines are delicate. It looks new. Cassandra vaguely remembers learning of something like this in her studies as an apprentice.

If she remembers correctly, Rivaini mages sometimes use tattoos as symbols of their mastery of different types of magic. She commits the design to memory to share with Leliana later—any information they can uncover about the woman will be useful. From her tight-lipped nature to date, Cassandra holds little hope of Shara volunteering information to them.

There are tattoos on her brow that are equally delicate. Each closed eye is framed by an outline that reminds her of a bird’s wing. Gazing at her unmoving face, pale from exhaustion despite the naturally dark color of her skin, Cassandra realizes the woman is several years younger than she is. 30, perhaps 31 years. She had assumed the mage to be older, given her composure throughout their ordeal together.

 _Young. So young, to bear such power_ , she thinks. The memory of stone cracking under the Pride demon’s feet from the force of the mage’s lightning, echoes in her mind ominously. Worry nags at her. She knows how tempting powerful mages are to demons in the Fade. They cannot afford to lose Shara to possession.

Adan stands, drawing blankets over the mage’s body. “There’s nothing more I can do for her,” he announces to Cassandra.

She rises to address him directly. “Will she live?”

The healer purses his mouth, considering, before he responds. “That’s entirely up to her. Most of the serious damage I found is in her ribs, which I’ve bound as best I can. The rest…” his eyes flicker to the mark on her hand, “is beyond my knowledge. It’s up to her now.”

He pauses before looking meaningfully at the door, “Now, Seeker, I suggest that you leave the mage to rest and find your own bed.”

* * *

Shara dreams of the sea.

When she was a child, before her magic manifested and changed everything, her mother used to take her sailing. She couldn’t swim yet, but she was still fearless, exploring every nook and cranny of their small sailboat. She would climb to whatever high place she could find and pretend to be a bird, laughing as the wind tangled around her fingers and through her hair. Once, on a day when the sun’s light bathed the sky in burnished gold and soft rose, she’d seen the soft, dark eyes of a seal flash at her. It’d looked like it was winking at some private joke between the two of them, before it turned and slipped back under the waves.

During her first year at the Circle, she would drag these memories out, again and again, seeking comfort in the past when the loneliness of the present became unbearable. 

In her current dream, it is not the well-worn sea of her childhood that she sees. In this dream, there is no sun, only a sky that ripples with green fire. The water is black, the waves relentless, and she can’t seem to get back to shore. Her feet move of their own will, deeper into the dark waters. The waves crash over her head, dragging her under.

Underwater, she sees a woman outlined in white who is shouting at her. Pleading with her. The words seem to echo around her as if they’re coming from far away and she can’t understand what they mean. There’s water in her lungs and she can’t see, can’t move, _can’t breathe_.

Her left hand begins to burn. The pain is astounding, it sears through flesh and singes bone as it travels from her palm to her heart and consumes her in white heat.

* * *

She wakes with a gasp, breathing hard. Her left hand is clenched in a fist and she brings the mark to her eyes to inspect it critically. Disappointingly, it’s still there, but it’s somehow subdued. Unlike in her dream, there is no pain.

Slowly, she becomes aware of her surroundings. She’s alone and seems to be in some kind of… cabin? Her eyes land on herbs drying upside down on hooks around the room. There’s a mortar and pestle on a nearby workbench and the bitter smell of Elfroot in the air. _A house of healing then,_ she speculates. As the memories of the battle in the Temple trickle back, she is increasingly surprised that she seems to be in one piece, _I didn’t die then._

She sits up slowly. Her ribs are still aching, but not as intensely as before. The brush of cloth sliding against her chest makes her pauses. Looking down, she sees that her tunic is gone, and instead her torso has been wrapped tightly in bandages. Lifting up the blanket, she sees bruises escaping from beneath the bandages before disappearing again under her breeches. _I’m glad_ _they left me my pants,_ she thinks ruefully.

Peering over the edge of the cot, she can see the tops of her boots. There’s a tunic next to her boots. At one point it might have been green, but the color has worn to a soft grey. _At least it looks clean,_ she thinks gratefully.

Listening intently, she hears the sound of voices beyond the room’s wooden walls. No one seems to realize that she’s awake, and she takes advantage of the privacy while it lasts. Inspecting the rest of the room, she spies a small basin and washcloth resting on a table against the far wall.

The idea of being clean— _well, cleaner,_ she corrects _—_ is too tempting to resist. Steadying herself on the edge of the cot, she swings her legs over the side. Sitting upright makes the blood rush to her head, leaving her dizzy and disoriented for several long seconds.

After it passes, Shara slowly pushes herself to her feet. Her legs are wobbly but they’re able to bear her weight. This illusion of strength only lasts for a few steps. By the time she makes it to the basin and collapses on a stool, she’s panting from the exertion.

 _Well that couldn’t have been more pathetic_ _if you’d tried._

Resting her head on the wooden basin, Shara forces herself to breathe deeply even as her ribs ache. Shallow breaths will only make the dizziness worse, she knows from experience.

When her strength recovers, her eyes catch on the reflection in the small looking glass hanging above the bowl. The glass just barely shows her entire face. The woman gazing back at her from the mirror looks drawn and tired. There are dark circles under her eyes and a scab on her right cheek that’s still healing. Judging from her grey pallor, there is a coating of ash on her skin. Her hair smells like smoke.

Her smile, when she tries it, looks feral and sharp. With a sigh, she drops the expression.

Wetting the washcloth, she scrubs at her face first. The water is cold but refreshing. There isn’t enough to do much more than wipe down her arms and the skin above her breeches, but she does her best, rewetting the cloth until the basin turns gray.

There’s no comb, so she uses her fingers to comb through the tangles in her black hair until she spies the shears on the work bench beside her. When she was young, before her Harrowing, her hair had been something of a vanity of hers. For years she had insisted on letting it grow until it fell in loose waves to the middle of her back, resolutely ignoring the frustration of her minders in the Circle.

Any such vanity is long gone now. Long travels and hard living have left her exasperated with the work of maintaining it and she cuts off the tangled mess with relief. By the time she gets the ends mostly even, they fall just past her shoulders. There’s nowhere to dispose of the cut strands, so she gathers them as best she can and leaves them in a neat pile next to the basin.

When she’s as clean as she’s likely to get, she studies herself critically one last time. Free of ash and dried sweat, cheeks flushed from the scrubbing, she looks more alive at least.

Feeling invigorated, Shara pulls on the tunic and her boots without stopping to rest in between. _I can dress myself, now isn’t that a great accomplishment?_

The tunic is too large, and she doesn’t have a way to belt it closed properly, but it’s comfortable and warm. As she does one final inspection of the room, she spots a sheet of paper resting on the workbench. Curious, she pulls the page towards her and sees that they’re notes of some kind. She skims them halfheartedly, only to realize that they’re notes about _her_ , and then she starts from the beginning to reread them in full.

Day One—

Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated. Mage mumbles her scarring “mark” is burning with unknown magic.

Wish we could station a Templar here, just in case.

Day Two—

Pulse normal, breathing normal.

Still unresponsive; careful drop-feed of prep. elfroot extract to hasten her recovery.

A lot of thrashing. Mutters about a woman in white.

Something about “the grey.” Encouraging?

Day Three—

Less thrashing. Some response to stimulus. Vitals seem solid.

Two attempts so far by locals to break into the Chantry to kill my patient. Lucky they don’t know she’s here.

All this work to save her life, will they just execute her?

Will inform Lady Cassandra I expect her to wake before the morn.

Her jaw locks in rage and fear as she comes to the last sentence. Suddenly the room feels less like a place of healing and more like a prison. _They wanted to have a Templar here to put me down like a rabid dog,_ she thinks furiously. The intensity of her anger at this realization catches her by surprise-- _Is that not what you expected anyway?_ A small voice asks. The edges of the paper begins to smolder before she brings her emotions sharply back to heel.

All at once she remembers that there had been a Templar fighting across from Cassandra the night she’d closed the Temple rift. Viciously, she regrets killing the Pride demon before it could crush the Templar then and there. _Would have been one less sword hanging over my neck, at least,_ she fumes.

The walls feel like they’re closing in on her and she leans on the workbench heavily. The urge to lash out, to burn, to _run_ and never stop running is overwhelming.

_Breathe._

_Just breathe. You must control yourself._

The voice is in her mind, but the words are Lydia’s. Her heart aches at the reminder.

Lydia, First Enchanter of Ostwick Circle. The woman who’d watched over her from the day she had arrived at the Circle at five years old, sulky, sullen, and desperately homesick. Who’d promised her that magic was a gift, was beautiful, no matter what her father or anyone said.

Her teacher, who’d shown her how to breathe, how to sharpen her will until the fire and lightning were under her control rather than she under theirs. Her mentor who’d done her best to protect her from the Templars watching the Circle until her Harrowing and to shield her after that when her magic kept growing instead of stabilizing.

She’d been the one to urge Shara to travel to Rivain to see her mother’s family, to undertake their tests and accept the mark of mastery she now bears on her right arm.

Her friend, who had clung to neutrality in the face of a world determined to tear itself apart. Lydia had known that the Circle would break, that someone would kill her, and had sent Shara away to a place she believed would be safe.

 _Except there is no safe place in this world, not for me. Not for anyone,_ she thinks resignedly.

There is no joy this thought, but the cold truth of it takes the edge off her anger and allows her to breathe.

Slowly, the emotions subside and the magic settles back into her bones. Without the whirlwind in her mind, she reassesses the situation. She tries her best to be fair.

They hadn’t assigned a Templar to her, in the end, and they’d protected her from assassination. Those seem like positive signs. They probably didn’t want to kill her right away. _The Seeker promised me a trial_ , she remembers.

Rising, she turns to leave workshop, but the door opens before she can. A small elvish woman enters, and gasps in surprise when she sees Shara standing. The woman falls to her knees, “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear! I beg your forgiveness and your blessing, Herald. I am but a humble servant.”

Unnerved now, Shara gently helps her to her feet, “What’s your name? Can you tell me where I am? And what’s going on?”

The woman makes a noise of understanding, “You’re in Haven, my lady. You’ve been asleep for three days.” Hesitantly she continues, “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone can talked about.” She dips her head and adds shyly, “My name is Estel, my lady.”

Shara processes this flood of information before speaking “I suppose the trial will happen now,” she muses aloud.

Estel looks up at Shara’s face uncertainly, “I haven’t heard anything about that. But I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve awakened. She said to notify her ‘at once!’”

“And where is she?”

“In the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. ‘At once!’ she said.” Estel turns to lead them out, but stops when Shara catches her shoulder.

Shara chooses her words carefully, “Estel, is it possible to have something to… cover my hands?”

At Estel’s questioning look, she continues lamely, “It’s still cold outside and I’d rather not… catch a chill.”

Understanding dawns on the smaller woman’s face. “Of course, my lady. Would these do?” She pulls a pair of leather work gloves from her apron.

They’re ragged and have obviously been used to cut medicinal herbs, if the smell is anything to go by, but they cover the mark completely when Shara pulls them on. That’s all that really matters. “They’re perfect, thank you.”

Shara follows Estel out the door, blinking at the bright sunlight outside. Her breath mists in the cold air and she’s glad for the protection of her borrowed clothes. Her eyes adjust slowly to the bright light. When she can see clearly again, she freezes at the sight of Ferelden soldiers lining both sides of the path from the cabin through the heart of town.

Shara keeps her face expressionless as she looks at them. Expectation hangs in the air as she waits to see if they will reach for their swords to subdue her by force. _I could kill them with lightning. Maybe not all of them in one blast, but most,_ she recognizes. Unlike a few minutes ago, there’s no anger, only weariness at the thought of needless violence.

One by one, the soldiers clasp their right fists over their hearts. When they hold that position and don’t reach for their swords, Shara realizes that they’re actually _saluting_ her. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she schools herself back to neutrality before following Estel down the path.

The soldiers are silent as the two of them move through town, but she can hear villagers speaking in hushed whispers.

She spots a man say to the woman next to him, “That’s her, that’s the Herald of Andraste. They said when she came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her.”

The woman sees Shara watching them and shushes her companion, “Hush! We shouldn’t disturb her.”

Shara’s discomfort deepens as they near the Chantry. Villagers are bowing their heads to her now, offering her blessings. There are more soldiers standing at attention and saluting her as she passes. She struggles to keep the frown off her face when she sees the… _worship_ in some of their expressions. _What is happening with these people? Who is spreading this ‘Herald of Andraste’ nonsense?_ She wonders uncomfortably.

All of it feels deeply wrong.

But she knows how quickly a crowd’s mood can turn, and she has no desire to incite a riot, so she smooths away all emotion and keeps her eyes fixed in front of her.

A pale, blonde haired man steps forward to meet her near the bottom of the Chantry’s stairs. He has a green cowl over his light armor, but he doesn’t move like a soldier. S _ome kind of merchant, most likely, since he can afford to wear armor and not carry a sword,_ she thinks. Estel ducks into the crowd, her task finished.

“Greetings, Herald. I’m known as Seggrit. I’m a merchant in these parts,” he says, confirming her expectations.

“Good day to you, Seggrit.” Shara responds in greeting.

“I believe Lady Cassandra would like to speak with you, she requested that we direct you to her once you had recovered.” His words have carried into the crowd and she has no chance to disagree.

“Of course, I am seeking her now,” she says.

“You will find her waiting in the Chantry, blessings be upon you.” Seggrit steps aside and allows her to proceed up the Chantry steps. The crowd at her back is getting larger and it takes all her focus to not run up the stairs and hide from their gaze. Her palms are sweating in her borrowed gloves, but she dares not take them off now.

The doors to the Chantry are designed to be imposing. Four inches thick, at least, and carved with the Chant of Light. Yet for all their size, they swing open smoothly and almost silently at her push. Clerics are scattered throughout the front hall and she pauses at the threshold to let her eyes readjust to the dim light indoors. Unlike the villagers outside, the clerics watch her in silence.

Her composure almost cracks then. She has always had an excellent head for history and the Right of Annulment is at the forefront of her mind when she sees their robes. _So many dead at Dairsmuid Circle for nothing but the Chantry’s fear... The fear of these people,_ she thinks as she passes the clerics. She knows how fickle the tolerance of the Chantry is.

As she walks through the hall, she wonders if they know. If they can make sense of the heritage written across her features. No one moves to intercept her but all of them are watching her as if she’s a feral animal.

She ignores their looks and comes to a stop outside two closed doors near the end of the hall. On the other side is unmistakably a meeting room. She can hear raised voices and she shamelessly pauses to eavesdrop.

There’s a man speaking, his voice is familiar, but she doesn’t know his name. He sounds agitated and gets louder with every word. “Have you gone _completely_ mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine.”

“I do not believe she is guilty.” Shara recognizes Cassandra's sharp voice even through the door.

“The prisoner failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way.” The accusation hits Shara in the gut, but she forces herself to continue listening.

“I do not believe that.” Cassandra sounds utterly dismissive of the possibility.

“That is not for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry.” He retorts.

Cassandra’s voice is tight with conviction and Shara can almost imagine the expression on her face. “My _duty_ is to serve the _principles_ on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours.”

* * *

Cassandra looks up as the doors open. She swallows the words of relief that rise to her throat at seeing the mage alive, awake, and on her feet. Leliana makes no outward gesture, but Cassandra knows her well enough to know that she’s also pleased.

Roderick recovers from his surprise quickly. “Chain her! I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial,” he orders the guards at the door.

Shara glances at the guards out of the corners of her eyes, tensing, but Cassandra interrupts before she can react. “Disregard that and leave us.”

The guards snap a smart salute and exit the room, leaving the Chancellor sputtering. “You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

“The Breach is stable, but still a threat. I will not ignore it.” Cassandra fires back.

Shara stands across the table from the three of them, looking each in the eye before speaking. “I did everything I could to close the Breach. It almost killed me.”

The Chancellor is dismissive, “Yet you live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.”

Cassandra responds before Shara can speak the sharp words on her tongue. “Have a care, Chancellor. The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

Leliana points out calmly, “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave, Chancellor Roderick. Someone that Most Holy did not expect. _Perhaps_ they died with the others—or _perhaps_ they have allies who yet live.”

Roderick’s tone is offended, but almost seems… forced, to Shara’s ear. “ _I_ am a suspect?”

Leliana hums in agreement, “You, and many others.”

“But _not_ the prisoner,” An ugly sneer twists his face as he spits these words.

“I heard the voices in the Temple myself. The Divine called to her for help,” Cassandra responds exasperatedly.

Roderick is needling now, trying to regain some of the ground he’s lost, “So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand—are all coincidence? You can’t possibly believe that Seeker.”

Cassandra corrects him, “Coincidence? No, providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

Shara’s first reaction to this pronouncement, which she barely curbs, is denial. She has no interest in claiming any divine intention in her involvement. Her second reaction is surprise, “About five minutes ago, you wanted me dead. So, you’ve changed your mind since then?”

“I was wrong.” Cassandra says honestly, “Perhaps I still am. I will not, however, pretend that you were not exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The Breach remains, and your mark is our only hope of closing it,” Leliana continues sensibly.

Over Chancellor Roderick’s objections, Cassandra sets a book in front of Shara. “This is a writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” After this announcement she turns her full attention upon the Chancellor. Shara feels a flutter of sympathy for him, she knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Cassandra’s ire.

Cassandra pokes him in the chest, and Shara turns her snort of laughter into a cough. “We _will_ close the Breach. We _will_ find those responsible. And we _will_ restore order with or without your approval.” Backed into a corner, the Chancellor leaves in a swirl of white robes.

Leliana waits just long enough for the doors to close before easing out of her stiff stance and drawing the writ towards her. “This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.”

She turns to Cassandra, warning, “We aren’t ready. We have no leaders, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

Cassandra doesn’t waste breath denying these facts, “But we also have no choice. We must act now.” Her last statement is addressed to Shara, “With you at our side.”

The mage looks at the two Hands of the Divine with dimly concealed dismay.

Shara clears her throat before asking, “What _is_ the Inquisition of old, exactly?” Her expression is guarded. She knows the answer to this question already, but she wants to see how they will respond.

Leliana considers her before speaking first, “It preceded the Chantry. People banded together to restore order in a world gone mad.”

 _A diplomatic answer that tells me nothing,_ Shara notes, both impressed and unsatisfied. There’s a trace of a smile on Leliana’s face which makes it clear that she understands the game Shara is playing.

“After, they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order. But the Templars have lost their way. We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more.” Cassandra minces no words.

It’s well hidden, but Leliana sees Shara flinch at the mention of the Templars. _Is she afraid of them? Or perhaps it is rage she feels, not fear_ , she wonders. Leliana files the question away to investigate later.

The mage studies the two women in front of her. “And if I refuse?” she asks blandly.

There is a glint in Leliana’s eye and Shara knows a checkmate coming when she sees it. “You can go, if you wish.”

“But you should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty. The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us.” There is no threat in Cassandra’s words, the truth speaks for itself.

“We can also help _you_. To deal with the mark for one,” says Leliana to soften the blow.

“It will not be easy if you stay, but you cannot pretend that this has not changed you. Help us fix this before it’s too late.” The Seeker entreats.

The Hands of the Divine watch her expectantly and she wishes, bitterly resigned, that she saw another way. But from the moment she had seen the Breach, she’d known that her path was set. There is no running from this.

In the end, she does the only thing she can. She offers them her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who've read so far. I will be making small edits as I catch mistakes, but this story has me in its grip and I'm doing my best to get it out quickly. A couple of notes:  
> \- I've always been interested in the role that nationality/race/class plays in shaping people's decisions and reactions. That's why the story takes seriously the question of the Inquisitor's background. The people around Shara view her as a total unknown and are trying to collect some points of reference so that they can try to predict what she'll do and how she'll react. Right now, all they know about her is that she's a mage and has the mark, both of which makes her dangerous.  
> \- Shara is essentially in hostile territory. She has no friends (yet) and no allies. She's injured, alone, and trying to figure out how to behave so that she doesn't scare people because she knows that their fear will make her survival even more unlikely. If she seems selfish, it's because she knows that (at the moment) no one cares if she lives or dies except for her.  
> \- There's a cost to being magically powerful in my version of DAI and that toll is paid by the body and the mind. Shara will get stronger eventually but for now her body is trying to reach some kind of equilibrium with the Anchor and that's going to be painful.  
> \- Cullen (and other characters) will have more screen time as the story goes on. But at this point, from Cullen's perspective, the world has just been cracked open and a big chunk of that mess has landed in his lap. He has his own shitstorm to deal with at the moment, so he'll only interact with the Herald when it makes sense in the context of his own role. When I say slow burn, I mean it.  
> Thank you for reading.


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